Dead Man's Chest
by cupid-painted-blind
Summary: She just wanted to know how much she was really worth, underneath the wealth and power, if Emma Alone was enough to get her to safe ground. Allowing herself to be kidnapped by a pirate may not have been the best way to go about finding that answer. —-Captain Swan AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: I never intended to do a full-length fic for this fandom, due to my track record. But I hit a hard dry spell and asked for prompts, and one of them was _a masquerade ball is being hosted by prince charming and snow white in their kingdom. princess emma is there, and masked hook is also there, for a (nefarious?) reason._ And I liked it. And it careened out of my control. And so here we go.

.

.

.

_fifteen men on a dead man's chest  
yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum_  
_drink and the devil had done for the rest_

_yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum_

Her plan had been a great one.

Emma, as a general rule, _loathed_ formal parties, but her parents had decided that her twenty-second birthday would be celebrated in style, with a large ball that ninety percent of the kingdom would attend and a cake that was taller than she was — and she could hardly tell them no, especially since they had (smartly) sent the invitations before informing her of their intentions. But she'd had an idea, a great idea, how to get out of it:

"How about we make it a masquerade ball?" she'd suggested, and her mother had gotten really excited about it because apparently she'd always secretly wanted to go to a masquerade, and Emma had plans of wearing a really nondescript dress and mask and just kind of… slipping out the back door when no one was watching. It would have been hours before anyone would have noticed her absence (if they noticed at all), and she would have been able to go out on the town on her own (for once) and get merrily drunk with potentially disreputable people for her birthday, and it would have been _fantastic_.

And her godmother had completely called her intentions and retaliated by buying her a fabulous crimson dress for her birthday — explicitly to wear to the ball — complete with an elaborate (and expensive) mask. It was magnificently manipulative: not only would Emma feel obligated to wear the outfit (which she, traitorously, admitted would look downright _sexy_ on her) but she would also stand out to the point that she _couldn't_ escape unnoticed.

The jerk.

(At least she got the satisfaction of seeing her father turn about as red as the dress when he saw it, and realized that he couldn't say anything about it or try to stop her from wearing it because it was a birthday present from Red. And also she was a twenty-two year old woman, but he hadn't quite accepted that fact yet.)

As such, it was with more than a little reluctance that she made her entrance into the ballroom — discreetly, because what was the fun in the unmasking if you'd already entered like the princess? — and made straight for the wine, because she had never promised anything about staying _remotely_ sober.

And that was where things started to go downhill, although in retrospect she figured that it was better sooner than later.

He was dressed in deceptively simple clothes, with an unadorned mask and a red vest a couple of shades darker than her dress, and she was almost positive she had never seen him before. He turned to her when she reached the table and immediately reached for a second glass of wine, offering it to her with a bit of a bow that sent her stomach dropping through the floor.

(He also had _really_ pretty blue eyes and that fact was, at the moment and in her current mood, far more important to her than the alarm bells ringing in her head.)

"Hi," she said dumbly, and he smiled, taking her hand and kissing it gallantly.

"Good evening, my dear," he replied in a low voice. "To whom do I have the pleasure of introducing myself?"

(Well-dressed. Stunning eyes, perfect amount of scruff, _unfair_ body. And also articulate, as well.

_Where the hell had he come from and how could she get there?)_

"Ah-ah-ah," she countered with a smile, and was really proud of her poker face, "the unmasking isn't until midnight. That's the whole fun of a masquerade," she added conspiratorially. His smile became more of a smirk, and maybe a bit… dangerous; she noticed that he hadn't released her hand. The alarms went off a little louder.

"Point taken, milady," he murmured, raising her hand up as if to kiss it again. "In that case, may I have this dance?"

_No_, a voice in the back of her head screamed, _stay away from this man, he's too slick to be true_.

"Of course."

.

"So tell me," she said softly, trying to ignore the heat of his hand on her waist or his breath on her neck, "what are you doing here?"

"Enjoying a dance with a lovely woman at the celebration of the princess's birthday," he answered easily, "what else?"

He seemed _so _perfect — sexy, gentleman, sexy, articulate, sexy, good dancer, sexy — and genuine, but something about him still set off those alarms, and Emma had learned (the hard way) to _always_ trust them.

"How old is she now?" she asked, feigning curiosity.

"Eighteen, I believe," he replied, just a shade too quickly.

Her age had been listed on every invitation.

"That sounds right," she mused instead. "Shouldn't she be married by now, or something?"

"Well, the king is a vocal supporter of true love," he said, shrugging. "Perhaps he places his daughter's happiness above politics."

"That doesn't seem like a good way to run a country," she muttered disdainfully, and he smiled.

"It's not my throne," he said, and that, at least, sounded truly innocent. "And he still has years before a lack of heirs may become a problem," he added, causing her to suppress a wince. "After all, there _is_ something to be said for romance, wouldn't you say, love?"

"I'm not what you'd call a romantic," she replied honestly, and he stepped back a bit; the look in his eyes might have been sympathetic or patronizing or disbelieving — the mask made his expression hard to read.

"My dear, I've found that everyone becomes a romantic in… certain situations," he said ambiguously, pulling her a little closer and spiking her heart rate. "Perhaps you simply," he murmured, mouth brushing against her ear, "haven't found yourself in the correct one."

Half of her wanted to call him out on the obvious seduction, but it was working _magnificently_ on the other half.

He was just so damn _beautiful _— it would _never_ have worked if he didn't have those — those _eyes_.

But the rational part of her brain seized control again in a flash:

_Why_ was he trying to seduce her?

He had crashed this party for some reason, and that reason certainly hadn't been so benign as bedding a pretty stranger — why waste his time on her if he had other plans up his sleeve? Unless he actually did know who she was, and she _was_ the plan.

She decided not to panic, to play along for the moment — after all, the night was still young, and it was possible he was waiting for something and had just decided to dance with her while he did so. And whether or not his plan involved her, if she went along with it, she could stop it.

"If I didn't know any better," she whispered lightly against his ear, mimicking his tactic, "I would say you were trying to seduce me."

"And what, precisely," he replied softly, hand sliding slowly and subtly up her waist to her ribcage, "makes you think I'm not?"

"You don't even know what I look like," she challenged a little desperately, and she felt him smirk.

"I fail to see how any flaw your mask may conceal would change the assets your dress scarcely does," he murmured, fingers lightly tracing circles against her ribs, "although what I see of your face suggests unparalleled beauty."

"You _are_ smooth," she breathed, trying to stop her hands from shaking. Either she was in way over her head or she was going to drag him to a broom closet and make a scandal out of her birthday party, or both.

"And you're trembling."

_Too_ smooth.

"I'm also not that easy," she said bluntly, louder, and stepped away from him entirely, smirking at the confusion all over his body language. "Thank you for the dance."

She walked away before he could say anything else, and maybe make her resolve crack.

.

Emma almost confided in someone about the ominous stranger, but couldn't quite find it in herself to — her sense of danger just couldn't overrule the (large) part of her that desperately wanted to handle this one on her own.

She was twenty-two years old, and she'd been a sheltered princess for most of that time, except when she had sneaked out and gotten into trouble — but even then, she'd always been The Princess, and there was only so much harm that could befall her in her own realm. She'd grown up on stories of heroic princes and daring princesses, but in her experience, royal life was more diplomacy than swordplay.

But this was a chance to actually _do_ something, prove herself, even though no one really seemed to think she had anything to prove, except Emma.

Her mother was a formidable archer and had survival skills that were frankly disconcerting, and her father was an expert swordsman who had killed dragons — _dragons_ — and her godmother was a _werewolf_ and Emma… had really great penmanship.

She'd trained for things, she could use a sword (a bit) and shoot a bow (much better) and make use of hunting and throwing knives (to a degree that worried her father deeply), but she'd never had the chance to actually test any of those skills in the real world, always locked up in practice rooms.

At least she could really kill a straw dummy.

No, the stranger was _Emma's_ quarry, and she would deal with him on her own.

.

This was probably not her best idea ever.

"So you think me a scoundrel, do you?" he said, leaning casually against the wall with a tiny, mocking smirk.

"You don't really hide it well," she replied coolly, crossing her arms and shifting her footing uncomfortably as his eyes flicked down a bit, either to her lips or her neckline (and either would be somewhat unwelcome and immensely gratifying).

"What gives me away?" he asked, but in such a tone that suggested she was somehow wrong and he was only asking so he could refute her points.

"You're too slick," she answered, shrugging carelessly like she wasn't starting to really worry about her immediate future; something about him was both magnetic and malignant, making Emma feel vaguely like she was trying to sail past a siren. "And you weren't invited to this party, or else you'd know how old the princess really is."

He tilted his head, calculating and serious. "And?"

She frowned; she didn't have many explicit reasons. "Call it a hunch," she replied quietly. "I have a good instinct for this kind of thing."

"And yet you've not alerted any guards to my _evil_ presence," he said, stepping forward so his face was just inches from hers. "You come to confront the mysterious stranger yourself — are you so arrogant as to believe I would be no threat to you, or merely a foolhardy girl who hasn't thought her plan through to completion?"

She bristled at the last, and drew herself up taller, even though she was still a good six inches shorter than him and could never adequately mimic his intimidating aura. "I know you're a threat," she replied evenly, "and I know what I'm doing. We're in a crowded place, lots of swords and noble gentlemen who'll swoop to my rescue if you try anything. But I'm not looking for a fight," she continued, forcing herself to remain calm and composed. "I want answers, that's all."

"The threat of lawful retribution is implicit in your questions," he countered, smiling a bit condescendingly and raising her hackles further. "Who am I, what am I doing here, what am I… _after_," he parroted, with a disconcerting emphasis on 'after' that made her think, again, that the princess was his target. She hoped he hadn't figured out who she was yet. "All queries for a suspected malefactor, and yet I can't think of a crime I've committed sufficient to lend you such mistrust."

His words only solidified her conviction that he was bad news.

But Emma was on thin enough ice as it was; better to back off now, before she plunged into the water. She took a deep breath and looked away. "You're right," she grumbled reluctantly. "Maybe I'm just paranoid," she added in a low mutter, as if only to herself.

He grinned, easy and benign enough to make her think that maybe she really _was_ just being paranoid. "No harm done, lass," he said, running his hand down the length of her arm to take her own. "Although I'm afraid I'm not generally a particularly forgiving man, perhaps I could be persuaded to forget this… indiscretion with another dance."

_He wants you where he can see you_, that voice in the back of her head whispered. _He wants to make sure you don't go to any guards_.

"How generous," she replied flatly, raising an eyebrow, but let him lead her out to the dance floor anyway.

.

He disappeared as midnight approached, just as she was starting to deeply suspect he would, dissolve into the crowd and wait for the unmasking so he could move on the right person; at least, she figured, it meant that he didn't know who she was, or he would've kept up the seduction act to get her alone.

…or else he'd already left to enact some other plan that had nothing to do with her.

Shit.

Could she let him potentially get away with something terrible by banking on the assumption that it really was All About Emma? Or walk herself right into danger by banking on the assumption that a sinister, mysterious, certainly-up-to-no-good stranger wouldn't be going after the princess for ransom money?

(There was, of course, a solution to the problem, but she had already decided that, dammit, this was her job and she would either do it by herself or screw it all up by herself. She was so _sick_ of being careful.)

Emma never went anywhere unarmed, especially when she was going into crowded places — a habit she had picked up from her ever-practical mother (Father tended to be a bit overly optimistic) — but her dress hadn't given her many options for concealment. She had been forced to go to the ball with only two knives: one hidden her bodice against her ribcage and one strapped to her thigh, both light and thin and better for throwing than close combat.

But they would have to do.

She was pretty sure he wasn't in the ballroom anymore, so she slipped out into the halls and, thinking like a criminal who wanted to see the party without being seen, made for the kitchens: they had plenty of doors with one-way screens so the servants could watch banquets and bring dishes out at the right time. It had creeped Emma out relentlessly as a child, and it still made her uncomfortable — she _hated_ the thought of people spying on her without her knowledge.

She rethought her plan not three steps from the door: every cook and servant knew who she was and would recognize her, mask or no, and give her away to the man if he was there.

Luckily (relatively) she didn't have to come up with another plan.

"You really are _unreasonably_ obsessed with me, aren't you, love?" a voice murmured from _terrifyingly_ close to her ear, sending a jolt of panic through her. She rallied herself, whirling around and not bothering to hide the shock and fright his sudden appearance had caused.

"What makes you think I'm looking for you?" she asked, trying hard to sell disgust and incredulity, and hopefully not failing as badly as she thought she was. He had done away with the mask, she noticed, and it suddenly occurred to her that most people, if taking a break from the party, would also have taken off their mask… unless they had something to hide.

"Call it a… _hunch_," he replied mockingly, leaning against the wall and looking her over lasciviously, making something inside of her whimper desperately. "What else would you be looking for?"

"The kitchens," she answered like it was obvious, crossing her arms. "I wanted to ask the cooks about one of the dishes."

"Surely they're rather busy, wouldn't you think?"

"Yeah," she scoffed, "busy watching the ball. All the food's been cooked and served, and it's only just starting to get time to clean up. They want to see the unmasking as much as everyone else. Although I see _you've_ ruined the surprise."

"What purpose is there in wearing a mask with no one to see it?" he challenged, getting up even closer to her and touching her mask lightly, something glinting in his eyes.

Shit. _Shit_. He was onto her.

"I've made it this far," she answered, shrugging. "Taking off and putting on this mask would do bad things to my hair, you know."

"You don't strike me as a particularly fashion-concerned lady," he said, fingers moving to touch a lock of her hair, "nor do I believe your hairstyle is one to be particularly affected by a mask."

He was right; she had railed against her mother's attempts to do anything dramatic to her hair, and as such, it was more or less just doing its own thing, albeit cleanly and a bit more curly than usual. Taking off the mask wouldn't do a damn thing to it.

And she had been _proud_ of that excuse, too.

"You'd be surpr — " she started, but the noise from the ball was quieting and it hit her how very _close_ midnight was. She was _expected_.

"Very eager to do this unmasking thing properly, aren't you, my dear?" he said softly, hand trailing down to her neck in what might have been a caress or a threat; either way, she stepped back from it and swatted his hand away. "And quite nervous all of a sudden," he added, barely above a whisper.

He _knew_. And she _was_ the target. And she had walked right into him. And she would have been _fine_ if she hadn't done anything and just hung out with her dad like she had done for every birthday party until she was fourteen.

…and damn if this wasn't the most exhilarating feeling she'd ever experienced.

She met his eyes and smiled brilliantly. "That's how this works, isn't it? Everyone's wanting to see the birthday girl, know if maybe they've shared a dance with the future queen."

Two could play this veiled threat game — reminding him that everyone would be expecting to see her presently would force him to let her go; it would be downright _stupid_ to kidnap someone right when the maximum possible number of people were looking for her.

"Is this a possibility for you?" he asked, voice lighter and amused but eyes no less predatory. "Dance with many women at this ball? If so, it's a pity I missed that."

"Of course," she replied cheerfully. "I'll dance with just about anyone," she added impishly, and he raised an eyebrow (his eyes were even prettier now she could see the rest of his face this was just infuriating _why were all the pretty ones psychotic?_) and smirked.

"Well, I suppose in that case, I should let you go and see if one of the _many_ women you've _cavorted_ with is indeed the princess," he said, doing something sinful with his tongue that made her throat go dry.

She tried to laugh but it came out weak; she shook it off and slipped past him to go back into the ballroom. "You're not coming for the reveal?" she asked innocently, turning back to him from the door to see that he was still leaning against the wall where she'd left him, watching her with an intense, almost hungry expression.

"I believe I already know who she is," he confirmed, looking her straight in the eyes, _just_ under openly threatening.

Emma tilted her head and smirked a bit, but didn't say anything else as she returned to the ball, hands shaking out of something more than nerves and less than fear.

.

She should tell someone about the stranger.

It was _stupid_ not to, stupid and childish and arrogant and reckless and impractical.

But the thought of it — calling her father or the guards to swoop in and take care of the threat before any harm whatsoever could come to dear, sheltered, pampered, almost-unwillingly-spoiled Emma — turned her stomach. She'd been given everything she'd ever needed and protected from every danger that her father's nightmares could conjure; just once, she'd like to know what it was like to have to rely on her own wits to survive.

She just wanted to know how much she was _really_ worth, underneath the wealth and the power, if Emma Alone was enough to get her to safe ground.

If she was, then she felt like maybe her mother, at least, would understand her reasoning, and if she wasn't…

.

She didn't even _see_ him. There was a hand pulling her back and a cloth over her face and then nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Emma woke up on a large, soft bed in a beautiful, wood-paneled room, hands tied in front of her, still wearing her dress, and with a _splitting_ headache. The stranger was sitting, one leg propped up on the other knee, in a chair at a desk off to the side, watching her with calculating eyes. He smiled when he saw she'd woken up.

"Let's be honest," he said cheerfully, "you knew this was coming."

"Chloroform?" she croaked, struggling to sit up and failing badly. "_Really?"_

"The classics are such for a reason," he replied with a shrug. "The headache will fade soon; I didn't give you much of a dose."

That meant she hadn't been out long. Small favors. "Gee. Thanks," she deadpanned, and he laughed a bit, standing and leaning against the wall again, moving as if filled with nervous energy.

"I'll admit, I _like_ you," he said appreciatively, still smiling and looking disturbingly (and kind of adorably) happy. "I fully expected you to fairly suffocate me with guards after the unmasking, and yet you didn't, despite having guessed my intentions rather… disquietingly quickly, I must say."

"I can't be held accountable for any stupid decision I make after three glasses of wine," she grumbled, making a more successful attempt to sit up, and leaning against the headboard. Was that _mahogany?_

What would a man wealthy enough to afford mahogany furniture need with ransom money?

He laughed again. "I wondered. Admit it," he said quietly, smirking and teasing and goading, "you were _hoping_ I'd kidnap you."

(A bit.)

"I was kind of hoping to thwart you _before_ the kidnapping," she muttered darkly, feeling for the knife under her bodice; it was still there, as well as the one on her thigh. That was odd. She would have expected him to check her for weapons.

The reasoning became clear immediately, as his eyes flicked down to the movement of her arm and he walked over, pulling her up to her feet and running his hand right over where she had been focusing, smiling wider when he found the knife. "Good form, love," he said quietly, unlacing the bodice — but, surprisingly, not much — and slipping his hand in to retrieve it. "But not quite good enough."

"You were _waiting_ for me to start looking for a concealed weapon," she inferred, trying to focus on anything except the feel of his hand against her side, only the thin fabric of her dress between their skin; unfortunately, with how close he was, that left her little other option than his face.

"And to wake up," he replied, slipping the knife out of her bodice and — again, surprisingly — re-lacing what he'd undone. It was oddly… chivalrous. Maybe that was why he hadn't found the knife on her thigh: he was unwilling to make a woman feel violated, even if it was for a practical reason.

Strange. Maybe he didn't do this kidnapping thing much; he didn't seem particularly good at it. But that would mean he had done it for some third party, a thought that was beginning to make more and more sense.

And there was only one third party she could think of who would be seriously interested in her.

"Doesn't seem like a really smart idea," she said evenly as he examined her knife with a raised eyebrow.

"Risky, don't you think," he murmured, running a hand lightly over the edge, "to keep a weapon this sharp so close to so many vital organs?"

"It's easier for me to get to," she answered coldly, "and I'd rather keep dangerous things close. Keeps my posture right, too," she added, with slightly venomous cheer. "After all, if I slouch, I puncture a lung."

He laughed again at that, and in the same bright way, like he was honestly amused with her. "I'll concede the point," he said, stepping slightly away from her, but then the smile faded although the amusement in his eyes didn't. "Now, I'd be willing to bet quite a lot of gold this wasn't your only weapon, was it?"

"Do you _see_ this dress?" she replied, raising an eyebrow and turning up the sarcasm to dissuade him. It didn't work.

"Oh, yes," he said, with relish and a glance over it, "but I also see you, and I somehow doubt that you're the sort of woman who would only bring _one_ knife with her. After all," he said quietly, "you felt confident enough to confront me twice and neglect to tell your doting parents. One small throwing knife does not that sort of fortitude grant."

"I have a hell of a right hook," she answered acidically, and he smirked.

"I don't doubt you do," he purred, hand lingering on her waist. "The smart places to hide a knife would be the hip or the thigh, both of which are somewhat… intimate places to search," he said, leaning in a bit. "Now, I _could_ encroach upon your personal space," he started, and she barked out a laugh that he ignored, "or you could simply remove them and give them to me."

"_Now_ you're gonna be a gentleman?" she asked incredulously, annoyed and curious at the same time.

"I'm always a gentleman," he replied, and raised an eyebrow, stepping barely farther away from her. She decided to take the chance.

Emma pulled her dress up enough to reach the knife and unsheathed it, lashing out at him in the same motion; unfortunately — although not really unexpectedly — he was prepared for it and caught her wrist, twisting it and disarming her in one expert move that made her cry out in pain and anger — and more so because it twisted her other wrist and gave her rope burn at the same time.

"Sweetheart, did you _honestly_ think I would've made that offer without expecting that response?" he asked disbelievingly. "_Honestly?_ Here I thought we were getting to know each other."

"Not really," she gasped, trying to tug her hands away from him, "but, hey, it was worth a shot. I was gonna lose the knife one way or another, might as well make it count."

He grinned, picking the knife up from where it had landed on the bed and glancing over it like he had the other. "And _that_ is why I like you."

"Because I'd stab you in the face if I could?"

"I doubt that greatly," he murmured, and went on without explaining exactly why he thought his prisoner wouldn't attack him to get to freedom. "You take serious risks without fear, and you aren't afraid of me. Even though you should be."

"You're not gonna hurt me," she snapped. "Either you're after ransom money from my parents or you're passing me off to Regina, and either way, you need me alive and unharmed."

He looked surprised at this. "You _are_ quick on the uptake, aren't you?" he said, which confirmed that it was the second — ransom was the first, most obvious reason he would've kidnapped her. That made things a bit more… desperate: Regina wanted Emma's mother to suffer _eternally_, and killing her child was a good way to do just that.

Luckily, she was beginning to form a plan, based on the kidnapper's repeated assurances that he liked her.

"Not going to ask what the Evil Queen wants with you?" he asked in an ambiguous tone; maybe he wanted to know if she was aware of what was going on, or maybe he didn't know himself.

"Nope," she replied simply. "I already know. She only wants one thing."

"Your throne?" he guessed.

"My mother's endless pain," she countered, and let him put those pieces together himself. She had hoped for some sudden horror or dismay, but his expression didn't change.

"Ah, she means to kill you," he said, releasing her and walking toward the door. "Pity."

"That's it?" she asked incredulously, and a little hurt. "'Pity'? That's_ all?"_

He shrugged, hand on the knob. "I like you, true, but I've no stake in your life or death beyond my deal with the queen."

"My hero," she said coldly, and he laughed without much cheer.

"A _hero_, my dear, is one thing I've _never_ claimed to be," he confided with something barely on this side of self-loathing, and left the room, locking it behind him as he did.

.

In retrospect, she figured, as she worked at the knots with her teeth, she should have asked about that deal with the queen he'd referred to — who knew, maybe she could offer him whatever Regina was, or something better — or at least she should have definitely brought another knife with her because _son of a bitch he could tie a damn knot_.

She'd never_ seen _one like this before. It must have been made up of at least three different pieces of rope and some kind of black sorcery because Emma — who had a lot (a _lot_) of experience un-knotting thin, delicate necklaces that had been tossed into drawers and forgotten for months — couldn't even tell which part to tug on. It seemed like every time she tried to do anything, the ropes just got tighter.

And worse, the knots, coupled with the vague swaying motion that she had, up until now, attributed to the lingering effects of the chloroform, as well as the generally ocean-y smell of the air, were beginning to make her worry deeply that the stranger wasn't, in fact, some random mercenary Regina had picked up out of some Thieves' Forest somewhere.

Naturally. There went plans B through F.

"Okay, this isn't working," she muttered, glaring at the angry rope burns on her wrists and casting about the room for a new plan.

The room she was in (the captain's, presumably) was pretty sparse and utilitarian — there was a bed, a desk, a chair, and a wardrobe, all made out of ornately-carved mahogany and all _completely_ clean of anything that might be useful in cutting rope. She had spent some time rummaging through the wardrobe in the hopes of finding a particularly sharp belt buckle or a knife or a doorway to another world or something, but all he had in there were clothes.

When she was done snickering at the amount of leather he owned, she had ransacked his desk in the hopes of finding a pen or a drawing compass or anything with a pointy edge, but only found maps and a few old letters in a woman's hand, written in some kind of gibberish that must have been a code.

She had been forced to accept that either he was the most boring man in existence, or he had specifically hidden or removed anything that she might possibly be able to attack him with, unless she could come up with a way to weaponize paper cuts or break a leg off a mahogany chair.

(Or else kick him where it hurt, but if she was, in fact, on a ship, kicking the captain of said ship in the family jewels would be a _really_ terrific way to become shark food.)

All of which left her a bit… lacking in options, besides sitting around and waiting for him to return so she could attempt to use her feminine wiles (assuming she could find them) to convince him to let her go.

But Emma simply could _not_ just sit and _wait_ for something to happen to her. It wasn't in her _blood_, to be so passive.

She tried it for about three minutes before she was once again looking around the room. Her eyes fell on the door and she peered at it contemplatively.

If she could pick the lock, she might be able to find a little powder monkey or someone that she could bat her eyelashes at and/or threaten into cutting the ropes, and then — well, she wouldn't exactly be able to make a break for freedom, but she could at least gather enough information to start outlining a real escape from either the captain or, failing that, Regina.

It was better than nothing.

.

The knots may have defeated her, the wardrobe may have been a waste of her time, and the desk may have disappointed her, but — after a bit less than an hour or so of frustrated cursing — _she_ conquered the damn door and walked out onto the deck, blinking in the clear sunrise. There were all kinds of men milling about on deck, doing what looked to Emma like nothing more than busy work, as the ship seemed to be sailing at a good clip just fine on its own.

It only took a moment for someone to notice her, and she (not for the first time, probably not for the last) internally cursed Red for giving her this dress.

"Oi!" a scruffy, older man called, coming closer and practically oozing scumbag. "Wot's this then? Cap'n di'nt say the cargo was so…" he paused, raking his eyes over her in a way that made her skin crawl, "_appetizin'."_

Well, he was gross, but Emma wasn't one for letting an opportunity slip by.

"I guess he probably thought he could keep me to himself," she replied, tone just on this side of flirtatious, less out of intent and more out of that being the closest she could _get_ to actual flirting with this man. "But I just don't like being locked up like that, you know?"

"_Do_ I," he sleazed, stepping closer and grinning, and she wondered, distantly, what exactly he saw when he looked in the mirror, to actually think she would be interested in him. "Lovely thing like you? _Selfish_ of 'im, you ask me."

"It _really_ is," she sighed, surreptitiously glancing around. No one else was paying them much attention. She wasn't sure if that was a good thing or an incredibly awful thing. "You wanna get him back for it?" she asked slyly, raising an eyebrow and hoping that the cut of her dress outweighed his fear of the captain.

He watched her warily for a moment, so (with _deep_ displeasure) she went for it, stepping closer and placing her hands on his chest in the closest approximation of a caress she could manage, and leaned up to his ear. "I'm _good_ with my hands," she whispered, and caught herself before _actually _telling him he should cut the ropes — she was already treading on the thin line between 'potentially sincere' and 'obviously manipulative.' "And you just _know_ he wants the first taste. Serves him right, yeah?"

It worked. She took back her curse at Red.

"Don't see 'ow that's breakin' no rules," he muttered, and out came the knife. The moment the ropes fell off her wrists, she twisted the knife out of his hand and decked him straight in the temple, relying on her always-trusty right hook to take him down. It would only buy her a few minutes, so she had to make them count.

Emma inspected the knife — not great quality, but sharp as hell, so a net win — and briefly considered taking his sword, but then, she had long since accepted that whenever she picked up a sword, she tended to make things worse for herself.

Right as she was standing and stepping over the man's prone form (resisting the urge to kick him, just on principle), a shadow fell over her, and she winced in anticipation.

Well, her short run of good luck had to give out at some point. She _had_ hoped it would last a little longer than ten minutes, though.

"_Honestly?" _the captain deadpanned from right behind her, and she turned to look at him. He didn't look angry, which was something, but he also didn't look amused or impressed, which was an entirely different kind of something.

She gave him her best shit-eating grin. It wasn't like she could play innocent, anyway. "Yep. Took me _forever_ to get the door open."

He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again thoughtfully. "What did you use to pick the lock?" he asked, sounding unwillingly curious.

"Pulled one of the bents out of my dress," she replied matter-of-factly, gesturing to her side, where she'd pried at the fabric until she'd managed to make a tear. "That's actually what took so long. The lock itself wasn't that bad."

He covered his face with his hand, either praying for patience or trying not to laugh. "Inventive, I'll grant you that," he said approvingly. "But what was the plan now, love? You _may_ have noticed," he went on, as though confiding a great secret, "it's a _bit_ of a swim to shore."

She shrugged, because, well… she was kind of making this up as she went along. "Didn't really have one. I mean, I know I'm stuck here, but I figured_, if_ I'm stuck here, I'd rather be armed and _not_ tied up like a hog to the slaughter," she explained, leveling him a glare. His eyes flicked down to her raw wrists, but failed to take on any apology.

"You think you'll _need_ a weapon on my ship?" he challenged, crossing his arms.

"You tell me," she countered. He smirked.

"Well, I suppose that depends," he replied easily, "on your conduct around the crew. Who, I might add, you do _not_ appear to be particularly endearing yourself to," he said, glancing down to where Sleazy was beginning to stir.

"What happened to being a gentleman?" she asked, fists on her hips. "You'd leave the poor, helpless little princess to your crew's tender mercies?"

He laughed outright at that. "_Were_ you a poor, helpless little princess, I _might_ consider doting upon you," he said, vaguely mocking. "However, I somehow _doubt _you'll need my help."

She couldn't decide if that was encouraging or terrifying.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she said cheerfully, and even she wasn't quite sure if it was sarcasm or not. "Can I ask _where_ on the big blue sea we are?"

"What good does knowing where you are do you?" he asked condescendingly, like he was lording the power information gave him over her.

"I'm curious," she answered honestly, shrugging again. "I mean, it's only just now sunrise, so we can't be _that_ far from home, and Regina's castle should still be pretty far away. It isn't close to the coast anyhow."

"Concerned about the ever-dwindling time you have remaining until your _meeting_ with the queen?" His expression and tone were unreadable, which made her uncomfortable and took her a bit off-guard. She'd never met someone so… _casually _callous before, especially someone who claimed to like her so much.

Because of that, the truth fell out of her mouth before she could hide it and keep up the game. "Yes," she said softly, and something in his eyes flickered.

"You waltz around my ship as though you own it," he said, slowly and incredulously, pausing to glare behind her at where Sleazy was undoubtedly awake now and plotting his revenge; she was proved right when the man slunk away, giving her a dirty look that she ignored. "You _openly_ defy me without hesitation and incite my crew members to turn on me… you're brave enough to seduce a dyed-in-the-wool pirate into removing your restraints," he added in a lower voice, almost as an afterthought. "And yet you fear _Regina?_ Have you ever _met_ the woman? She's little more than a melodramatic harpy," he sneered disdainfully.

She couldn't quite look at him; she hated the fear that rose up in her when she thought about Regina, and she hated showing it more. But he and Emma had met two entirely different Reginas, apparently.

"Those things kill people, you know," she whispered, and then shook herself, beginning to get angry, although exactly _who _she was mad at, she wasn't sure. "_You're_ her ally, at least for this deal you've got," she went on, louder, by way of excusing her distress. "She wants to cut _my_ heart out and send it to my mother as a gift."

The man raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn't react, and the rising anger took on a poisonous bent.

"Not that it matters a bit to you," she said caustically. "You're _safe_, you're getting everything you want, what do _you_ care how I'm gonna die?" But if her words stung him at all, he didn't show it, except for a slight narrowing of the eyes.

Her blood itched with an emotion she couldn't name. This was so _stupid_, so unnecessary, and the worst part was, this was all her own damn fault. Between the drug and the lingering headache and the lack of sleep and the anxiety and the _lock-picking_ and now the captain, she was starting to lose confidence in herself.

But she couldn't _do_ that. _Emma_ was the only thing standing between Emma and Regina, and if she wasn't enough, she really _would_ see her heart ripped out of her chest.

And, strangely, it wasn't fear of the pain or of dying that reanimated her; it was the _look_ that would come over her mother's face if she opened a package containing her daughter's heart.

Snow White was a strong, formidable woman whom Emma loved and admired dearly, but _that_ would kill her.

If Emma failed, it wasn't Emma who would pay the price.

"Everything I want?" he drawled, and it was hard to tell if the insult in his voice was directed at her or at himself. "You _truly _believe that _Regina_ could give me all that I'm after?"

"I don't know what you're after," she replied, suddenly _deeply_ tired, all the way from her skin down to somewhere _beneath _her bones. "I don't even know who you are."

He laughed a bit at that, suddenly cheerful again; she noticed that he was, for no apparent reason, massaging his left hand. "Ah, yes. My apologies, I left before the unmasking, didn't I?" he said, sweeping into a short, ironic bow. "Captain Jones, and I'll even be terribly generous — " she rolled her eyes at him " — and _allow_ you to call me by my given appellation, Killian. In the past I've been known by… _other_ names," he added ambiguously, touching his left hand again — what, she wondered, was so special about it? "But nothing a _virtuous_ woman like yourself would recognize."

"Try me," she challenged, bristling at the taunt in the word 'virtuous.'

He leaned forward so he was eye-level with her, and replied, in a firm tone and with something strange on his face that — for the first time — actually frightened her a little: "No."

It wasn't even a warning — but when he said it, she caught a glimpse of something _dark_ behind his eyes, dark like an oubliette or a grave.

…maybe the fact that he had a deal with Regina wasn't the only reason he wasn't afraid of her.

"You look tired," he said, straightening up and abruptly shattering the ominous atmosphere, the abyss in his face suddenly gone.

"I haven't exactly had a restful night," she replied slowly, struggling to adjust to the shift.

He nodded. "Then allow me to propose a deal," he began, holding out a hand. "You give me the knife and your word that you'll not be… _disrupting_ my crew, and I'll forego the restraints and permit you to sleep separate from the rabble."

The veiled threat was obvious: _don't agree, and you'll be put in the crew's quarters_. Even if she hadn't made a hell of an enemy out of Sleazy, that would be a nightmare and a half.

Her mother's advice rose up in her memory: _know when to attack, when to run, and when to compromise. You can't fight everyone who challenges you._

Emma sighed, but handed over the knife without argument. "I'll behave myself," she grumbled.

"My dear," Killian replied, taking the knife and sweeping her right damn back into that stupid damn room, "I do not for one _moment_ believe that. But I'll make a note of it regardless."

"Probably shouldn't lock the door either," she said, taking the last shot in a vague (and failed) attempt to make herself feel better.

"I recognize that doing so would be entirely futile," he assured her, but then smirked a bit cruelly, "much like you attempting to escape were I to do so." He started to shut the door, but paused in the threshold, glancing back at her. "You're welcome to the clothing in the wardrobe, if you'd rather not sleep in such an undoubtedly uncomfortable dress," he said, bizarrely thoughtful; she couldn't get a hold on his mood swings, or even whether they were actual mood swings or just a series of walls and locks.

She glared at him as he walked out — but, true to his word, didn't lock the door behind him this time — and fell face-down onto the bed, trying to come up with something else through the haze of exhaustion and disappointment.

Regina's castle wasn't anywhere near the coast; if she didn't meet them when they docked (and Emma prayed to every god she'd ever heard of that she didn't), that would mean he would be escorting her the two-to-three day journey. And even in a fast ship, it was a week to the country she'd been exiled to.

Plenty of time to convince him to help her, or at least make a break for it and run out the clock with a merry chase until her parents brought the whole army in to find her.

…now she just had to come up with a way to _do_ those things.


	3. Chapter 3

When Emma woke up, night had fallen, which startled her — hadn't it been sunrise just moments ago?

She staggered out of the bed and to her feet, blinking the haze of sleep out of her eyes and readjusting her dress (she had, out of stubborn belligerence, refused to change into any of his clothes, and was now regretting it). The room was surprisingly empty; she had half-expected the captain — Killian — or, no, that felt too familiar and _nice_ for a kidnapper, he was _Jones_, that was_ it _— to be sitting at the desk watching her again or else in the bed for one reason or another.

It was oddly disappointing.

Slowly filling with the restless energy of waking from a too-long sleep, she shuffled out of the cabin and onto the deck, where a stiff breeze was blowing; they were farther north than they should have been. Either she had slept _much_ longer than she thought, or they were moving _much_ faster than any other ship she'd been on.

Maybe she was imagining it, but there was something… eerie about the deck right now, unevenly washed in light from the half-moon, light that served more to cast shadows than anything else. It made her uneasy.

She found Jones at the helm, although he didn't appear bothered with steering, and, in the interest of banishing the vague fear of the dark she thought she'd gotten over years ago, joined him.

"You slept well, I take it?" he asked, with a glance at her form. "And clearly had trouble opening the wardrobe."

"I like this dress," she replied coldly, crossing her arms and trying not to openly shiver.

"Really," he said, and in the dim light it was hard to tell if his expression was amused or lascivious, and even harder to tell which one she'd prefer. "Pride is _such_ a beast, isn't it?"

"It's one of my pet sins," she conceded with a noncommittal shrug.

"So I gather," he said with an insincere smirk. "There are worse crimes, I suppose. I once knew a man who spent three hundred years planning the perfect revenge, personification of wrath, he was."

"What happened to him?" she asked, watching his face. There was something _off_ about him, like maybe he was drunk or maybe he was desperate to share some old, awful secret.

"What do you think?" he replied ambiguously.

"Well, did he get what he wanted?"

He didn't answer for a long time, instead staring out to sea distantly, clearly lost in memory. "No," he answered finally, without fully coming back to the ship. "He never got anything he wanted."

She started to inquire further, but stopped herself at the last moment — that trail didn't lead anywhere good, and she was in no mood to tread unknown waters.

"Where are we?" she asked instead, and he finally came back around, blinking at her. The night hid most of the emotion on his face; she was left with a vague sense of bitter longing, but it passed so quickly and completely that she was sure she had imagined it. He grinned, teeth white in the moonlight.

"The northern seas," he replied smugly, again lording the information over her. "You'd know if you could read the stars."

She looked up, but navigation by starlight wasn't a skill she'd spent much time honing. Her lessons in navigation were a bit more… down to earth than his; she could find her way to water in a forest and orient herself using moss and the north star, but she was lost at sea. Still, she gave it a shot.

"Pretty far north," she said, wincing. "Farther than we should be, or else I just suck at this."

Jones laughed, but didn't elaborate. "We'll be at the coast of your foe's lands within three days' time," he said, and she turned to him, surprised and dismayed. It was too soon. She'd only been on this ship a day and a half — her parents probably hadn't even left port yet.

"That soon, huh?" she breathed faintly, and he glanced at her.

"Aye," he replied, sounding a bit more sober. "Fastest ship on the seven seas," he explained, patting the wheel like it was a good pet. "But we've also had the wind and luck on our side."

"_Your_ side," she muttered. He was quiet for a moment.

"Well, Regina's, at least," he conceded in a low voice, and an uncomfortable silence fell. She didn't want to comment on it, either in pathetic hope or in scathing criticism, and she refused to seize upon the moment of tenderness to make a case as to why he shouldn't hand her over. It was part pragmatism — calling attention to it would probably make him shut down — but mostly pride.

It just felt too much like _begging_.

She continued to look up at the sky, and pretended she couldn't feel his eyes on her.

At least they would slow down when they reached land; a ship could speed along with the wind, but people (and horses) could only run so fast for so long. It was cold comfort at best.

"You know," she said abruptly, to fill the silence and the gaping maw of dread opening up in her gut, "everyone I've ever talked to says they see different constellations. And I've talked to a _lot_ of people," she added with a wry, insincere smile. He raised an eyebrow at the sudden non-sequitor, so she went on, although she rather felt that she would have kept talking even if he walked away. She needed the noise. "The dwarves, they see the Great Pickaxe, and the north star," she indicated to it, "is the top of the handle. The fairies say it's a crystal, my godmother says it's a wolf, and my dad says it's a bear. You know what I see?"

"What do you see?" he asked flatly.

"A ladle," she replied, and grinned in spite of his bored tone. "I have _no_ idea where they get all those other things."

He laughed a little, under his breath like he was trying not to be amused. After a moment, he glanced up and was overcome by another short, quiet laugh. "Since I was a boy," he explained, leaning against the wheel easily, "I've thought it a pot."

"That works too," she said immediately. "Same concept."

"I wonder what that says about us?" he mused lightly.

"That we're always hungry," she replied, shrugging, and he looked at her oddly. "That, or we have no imagination."

"Either could be the case," he muttered after a short moment of reflection. "I've never looked to the sky for pictures or romance," he said slowly. "The curse of the sailor, I suppose: all I see in the stars are maps."

"I don't think that's a curse," she said. "It's the only one that's worth anything, isn't it? I mean, pictures and romance don't get you home."

"No," he replied thoughtfully. "But that isn't what they're designed for. What is life without romance, after all?"

She shrugged; romance, in any of its incarnations, had never done her any favors. "Simple," she answered, and he snickered cynically.

"Empty," he countered.

"Same thing."

She didn't say what she was really thinking — imagination was supposed to be how a person escaped from reality, but Emma had always been too grounded for much of that. Maps were more useful than crystals and wolves and pickaxes; pictures were what poets looked for in the sky, maps were what runaways did.

"Have you ever even been in love?" he asked suddenly, in a curious and vaguely patronizing tone, that _you'll understand when it happens to you_ tone her parents used when they talked about that sort of thing.

She looked away, back up to the night sky. _He_ had called it a cart (_a method of escape_).

"No," she lied. "No, I've never been in love."

.

She stayed there for a long while, still restless but unable (or maybe just unwilling) to leave the helm and return to the cabin; while it was a beautiful and comfortable cage, it was still a cage, and Emma had never done well with those.

The conversation was asinine, veering away from delicate topics like love and vengeance to the parts of a ship and sailing terminology, how to tie knots and how to pick locks and how to unlace a corset one-handed (although she was at a loss as to why he knew that), how to navigate when the sky was cloudy and how to identify poisonous vegetation and venomous animals (she was _proud_ of how much more she knew about that than him). It was enlightening, in every way except human emotion.

She was perfectly comfortable with that, at the same time that she was horribly disappointed.

It was so easy to forget like this, cold wind in her hair and nothing but water for miles and complete, total, absolute _freedom _in her blood.

(…or at least the illusion of it.)

It was so easy to fall into the trap of blue eyes and wicked smirk and _I'm always a gentleman_; she knew, on some level, that he was deadly and actively participating in her imminent demise, but at the same time, that part of her that had rebelled against telling anyone about him at the party whispered, _just take the risk, just this one time_.

_After all, if you're going up against Regina, what do you really have to lose?_

.

Emma only noticed because Killian — _Jones_, she reminded herself — noticed, perking up like a rabbit who'd caught the scent of a wolf: there, against the sunrise, was something, shapeless, maybe just a trick of the light.

But the look on Jones's face said it wasn't, and he was the one with the experience. Besides, her gut was already twisting with premonition as the speck grew into a vague, tall oval.

"What is it?" she asked when he put the telescope back down.

"Another ship," he replied tightly. "Could be nothing, passing merchant vessel or the like."

"I thought pirates raided ships like that," she mused, and he shrugged dismissively.

"I've no need, and the risk outweighs the reward, with _you_ aboard," he answered, with only a hint of resentment; she had already figured out that he liked the thrill of the fight and the danger more than he cared about the haul. Emma wanted to hate him for it, but she had let him kidnap her half for the drama it would be, so she didn't have much room to talk.

"What if it isn't a merchant? Then what is it?"

He grinned, a bit daring and a bit reckless and a bit mad (and a _lot_ sexy). "Another pirate, love. What else?"

She hesitated, studying his profile for a moment; she wondered if he realized how obvious he was being. "So why are you worried?" she asked in a low voice. His expression didn't change.

"Who said I was worried?"

"I did," she replied matter-of-factly, and he glanced at her again, eyes narrowed. It took him a bit to respond, and when he did, it was reluctant.

"There isn't a large number of pirates who frequent these waters," he answered. "Most who do are no threat to me, generally not even worth the gunpowder to quarrel with, but there _is_ one…" he trailed off, and then took a deep breath. "That ship, she's the right size, looks to be the right make. She's still too far off for the flag to be raised, however, so there's no way to be sure at the moment."

"What ship?"

He gave her a wry smile. "The _Queen Ann's Revenge_," he replied, smile turning into a sneer. "You may not have heard of her, but I _assure_ you, you've heard a tale or two of her captain." She waited for him to go on, raising an eyebrow; the name _did _sound familiar, but she couldn't place it. When she didn't respond, he went on. "Edward Teach," he said, grinning in that same reckless way. "You may know him as Blackbeard."

Oh.

She had, in fact, heard of Blackbeard.

But he was supposed to be a legend, something from the distant past, not a real-life person — her _mother_ had heard stories of him when she had been a child. Could he really still be haunting the seas?

It occurred to her, with a bolt of horrible vertigo (that may have had something to do with the unease she'd felt in the shadows), that perhaps "haunting" was exactly the right word. She'd never seen a ghost, and her father scoffed at the idea of them in general, but her practically-sister Alexandra _swore_ their castle was haunted. And although Emma's view of the supernatural was usually pragmatic — she didn't believe anything until she saw it herself — ghosts frightened her.

The idea of _anything_ undead and angry frightened her, really. That kind of determination, to hold onto a grudge past the grave, was a whole other class of deadly.

"Blackbeard," she repeated slowly, trying and failing to hide her concern. "I thought he was dead. I mean, he was famous when my mother was a little girl."

"How long ago was that?" he asked, shrugging. "Forty years or so? He's certainly an elder, but in this climate, that merely makes a man more dangerous." He turned away from the edge of the ship and began pacing with a sort of taut energy. "He's a consummate survivor. Not to say that I'm not," he added ambiguously, and muttered something under his breath that involved the word _experienced_, "but the _Revenge_ has twice the guns I do, and she's nearly as fast."

"You don't think we could win a fight with Blackbeard?" she asked, half-fearful and half-incredulous, and he barked a harsh laugh.

"Interesting question, darling," he replied, smirking without any humor. "Do I believe that I, personally, could not win a duel with Edward Teach?" he said, and grinned like a shark, a vicious confidence in his eyes. "_Please_. I could defeat him in my _sleep_."

The way he said it, and the look on his face when he did, actually made her believe that.

"However, if your question was, do I believe that my _ship_ could not win a battle with the _Revenge_," he went on, crossing his arms, "that answer is 'perhaps.' As I said, he has twice the guns. If he chooses to engage us in a naval battle rather than with a boarding party, I would not be so certain of our chances."

"But if he boards us…" she prompted, and he shrugged dismissively.

"If he boards us, he'll lose," he replied, with neither arrogance nor uncertainty. "I have a highly-trained crew of seasoned gun- and swordsmen, I've no worries regarding that. The problem, however…" he trailed off, and made a face. "The problem is, he knows that as well as I do. I've tangled with the man before, he'll not be foolish enough to meet me in person again."

"So he'll just blow us out of the water," she mused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Well, if we're faster, why don't we just… run?"

"I'm curious," he said slowly, "as to what makes you think that wasn't the plan from the beginning."

She blinked. "Well, you don't really seem the, you know, running type."

He shrugged casually, like an acquiescence. "In general, no, but there's brave, and then there's _stupid_. Why fight a battle when I've nothing to gain by winning? And quite a lot to lose, I might add."

"What about manly pride?" she asked flatly, raising an eyebrow, and he snorted derisively.

"A man who risks his entire crew's lives to appease his vanity is not fit to be a captain," he replied in a dark voice. She had to agree; it was a sentiment she'd heard her father express — _you can't let your pride cloud your judgment. Don't make other people die so you can prove yourself_.

"Now," he said, as though continuing some entirely different conversation, "in the event that it _is_ Teach and he _does_ catch up to us and he _does_ board us, you are to stay in my cabin, do you understand?"

She stared at him for a moment — he looked deadly serious — and glared, hackles rising at the fact that he was _giving her orders_, like she was one of his crew or had any obligation to him whatsoever. "What, are you afraid he'll kill me before Regina can?"

"In a word," he responded coolly, "_yes_. My deal with Regina is_ very _explicit that you are to be delivered alive."

Well. At least he was honest.

(It still hurt.)

"Right," she muttered, and turned to walk away, restless and discouraged. "Glad to know."

Had he been humoring her all night, or was he just throwing up walls now? She was usually so good at reading liars and fakes, but he wasn't making any _sense_. It was like he had some sort of split personality, one chivalrous and charming and one callous and cruel.

And both of them were telling the truth.


	4. Chapter 4

The ship was _definitely_ coming toward them, growing larger by the minute, and a volatile agitation settled over the crew as it did. It seemed like everyone had just _decided_ that it was Blackbeard, even though the ship was still too far to be sure and hadn't raised a flag; when she asked the helmsman, he gave her a tight smile.

"_Our_ colors're raised," he explained tensely. "Not many a ship's gonna make headway for the _Jolly Roger_."

"Except maybe the _Revenge_," she inferred, frowning. The helmsman laughed a bit, mirthlessly.

"No maybe," he grumbled. "Blackbeard sees us on the water, he'll come right at us, fast as he can. Y'might say there's a bit of _bad blood_ 'twixt him an' the captain."

"Oh? But he's so nice and accommodating. I can't imagine anyone having a problem with him," she replied innocently, and he laughed outright, which made her feel a bit better, even if only for a moment.

"Cap and Teach have got in a more'n a few scrapes over the last few years, th' old scumbag's had his eye on the _Roger_ for a bit. Can't never seem to really win, always ends up somethin' of a draw. 'cept last time they tangled, Teach made the mistake o' challenging Cap'n to a duel, figgered he could best 'im simple." The helmsman smiled at that, proud by proxy. "He was wrong," he said unnecessarily. "Easy mistake t' make, though," he added airily.

"You mean to tell me that he," she said incredulously, gesturing somewhere vaguely behind her to the rest of the ship, "is a better swordsman than _Blackbeard?_ I'm sorry, nothing against Jones, but… doesn't Blackbeard have like _forty years_ of pirating on him?"

The man smiled ambiguously. "Y'd be surprised, Lady Emma," he replied in a low voice. "Cap'n's a_ lot_ older'n he looks."

She hesitated, unsure if she wanted to know, something pricking at the back of her mind that she couldn't quite place, and finally decided not to ask any more questions. It wasn't like they were doing anything to ease the cold brick of dread that had settled in her stomach.

"Oh," she said lamely.

.

Sure enough, it was Blackbeard.

Jones caught her by the waist unceremoniously as she was climbing up onto the bow to see the _Revenge_ out of morbid curiosity, an unwillingness to get in the way of the crew's mad preparations, and a lack of a better thing to do, all-but dragging her to the other side of the ship, scowling the whole way.

"Why isn't he attacking?" she asked, stumbling to keep up his pace and, when she'd had enough of tripping, digging her heels into the wood and grabbing the mast, forcing him to stop. "You said he'd lose if he boarded us but he has so many cannons, he can just blow us out of the water. Why isn't he?"

"Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?" he snapped, pulling at her arm in an effort to make her walk again. She stubbornly clung to the mast.

"I'll move when _you stop dragging me_," she hissed coldly, and something passed over his face, too quick to name. It worked; with a disgruntled sigh, he dropped her arm and motioned for her to lead the way, somehow making a hand gesture _ooze _with sarcasm. "Lemme guess," she went on, taking great care to walk in the way she was taught to, like royalty at high court, more a _float_ than a walk. She had never been fond of the Queenly Glide, but it would piss him off, so she did it with relish. "It's a manly pride thing. He wants to beat you one-on-one."

"That, or he's spotted and recognized you standing at the bow like a bloody _lamb_ to the _slaughter_," he growled, fist clenching as she took her sweet time crossing the ship. It wasn't like it was a huge distance; it was the lack of control he hated.

It was so small a victory that it couldn't even really be called one, but every time his hands twitched in frustration, she felt that much better about the situation.

He slammed the door behind him when he left her in the cabin, and all the satisfaction abruptly vanished as the reality fully sunk in.

With Jones, there was always this lurking but ultimately unformed threat: he was dangerous, sure, but she was valuable to him and so she was completely secure (at least, for the moment). With Blackbeard — feared, legendarily ruthless pirate captain — she had no such guarantee.

And Blackbeard — feared, legendarily ruthless pirate captain — was launching an attack on the ship.

It didn't matter if Jones could beat him in a duel, if he or one of his crewmen got to her first.

For just a moment, she gave into the crushing fear (she even, in slight hysteria, considered how to commit suicide rather than be captured by Blackbeard's men), and then rallied herself as the shouting outside the door grew louder and exploded into gunfire.

She began scanning the room for potential weapons.

It was _just in case_, as she had no intention of getting involved — Emma was a fighter, but Emma also wasn't_ stupid_: with Blackbeard attacking the ship, it was in her best interest to be elsewhere, noble courage and pride be damned.

Of course, though, the _one time in her life_ that she decided to do the _sensible_ thing, pirates had to start breaking down the damn door _anyway_. She wondered if they were just trying to ransack the captain's room, or if maybe someone _had_ seen her up on the bow after all.

She cast about in increasing desperation; she wasn't having much more luck in finding a weapon this time than she had the first, but now — clock ticking at a gallop — she was willing to take anything she could get.

Just as the door's frame began to splinter, her eyes lit on the chair — mahogany was a heavy, hard wood, and a pirate's skull would probably crack faster than it would. With a grunt, she hoisted it so the legs were sideways, aiming the flat edge of the seat at the weakest part of the door, and — as soon as it broke open — swung the chair with all her strength, nailing the intruder right across the abdomen and knocking him back with a strangled yell.

Better yet, his sword skittered across the deck away from him and she shot for it, slipping on the wood and tripping rather than actually running, so that when her fingers touched the hilt, she was flat on her stomach on the deck. She had managed to rise to her knees when she felt the sword at her back.

"Well, well, what do we 'ave _here?_" a gravelly voice said, slow and triumphant.

She glanced around the deck in the vague hope of catching Jones's eye, but she couldn't find him, and anyway, there was too much going on — shouting and people running and gunpowder smoke and other assorted noises — for him to be on the lookout for someone who was, supposedly, out of harm's way.

"What does it _look_ like you have here?" she snapped, fear making her angry. "An octopus?" Before she could try and quip her way out of this one, the hand presumably attached to the voice grabbed her roughly by the shoulder and pulled her to her feet, turning her — sword never leaving her back — and marching her right back into the captain's quarters. She heard the remnants of the door shut behind him.

At least he wouldn't do anything _too_ nasty with so little privacy.

Right?

"Now, pet, yer gonna s'plain to me why Cap'n Jones is keepin' a pretty li'l firecracker like _you_ all locked up in his room, missin' out on all the fun," the man whispered, right up against her ear in a way that was _almost_ thrilling.

"I think he just didn't want me to get in the way," she answered flippantly, hoping that he found it more believable than it sounded to her. "I'm a civilian, from Rustringen, I bought passage to Bergen."

"Really," he replied in a tone that said no, no he did _not_ find it more believable than she did. "Hefty price y'must've paid."

"I've been saving for a while."

"And how did ye _earn_ this money for passage, dearie?" he asked, hand sliding over her arm in a way that told her _exactly _how he thought she had, and she cursed internally.

"I'm a hatter," she replied, voice raising with each word, and suppressed a wince. "I make hats. Magic ones."

"Magic hats, eh?" the man repeated in mockery, and she just wanted to turn around and _hit_ him, but that would end badly for her internal organs. "What kind o' magic hats?"

"Portals," she answered quickly, thinking of this hatter she'd heard of, some guy Regina and her mother had both known, with a hat that could let you travel to different realms. She banked on him not being so well-known abroad. "I make hats that can take you to another world."

"_Do_ you, now?" he whispered slowly, intrigued, and she wondered if she had convinced him, and whether or not that was actually a good thing for her immediate future. "Magic hats that take ye to 'nother realm… I've _'eard_ of such things, I have."

"Have you?" she said, trying to fill the silence and stall for time — eventually, someone would notice the state of the door and come looking, right?

"Aye," he breathed, right up on her neck in a way that was no longer thrilling at all. "Now, I'm not sayin' I _believe_ yer story, but I don't see no reason not to give ye a chance to prove yerself an honest woman. If y' lyin', well…" he paused, either for effect or to indulge his imagination, "I'm sure we can find another use for ye."

With that, he jerked her backwards, hand clamped over her mouth, and began to drag her back to the deck. Panic set in, and with it, previously unknown strength.

She balled her hand up into a fist and slammed it backward, aiming straight for his groin, and grinned when she struck true, drawing a high-pitched shriek from her (newest) would-be kidnapper. In the same motion, she snatched the sword from his suddenly-limp hand and hit him on the head with the hilt, knocking him out.

"_I'll_ find another use for you," she muttered darkly, kicking him in the kidney for good measure.

Emma took a deep breath, weighing her options. The cabin wasn't safe anymore — in fact, it was probably _more_ dangerous than the deck, because there was only one exit — which meant she had no choice: she was going to have to take her chances with the melee.

Well, she thought, she _had_ wanted to test her training in the real world.

Creepy's sword wasn't a good fit for her hand at all — it was too big and heavy, a bit shoddy, and the balance was all wrong — at best, she could use it as a bludgeon. In a flash of brilliance, she checked the man over for any spare knives or guns he might have kept on him, and struck gold: a loaded flintlock pistol, two daggers, and a light hand-axe.

She picked up the sword and the axe, both of which were more or less useless to her, and heaved them over the side of the ship the moment she could skid haphazardly across the deck. The pistol would have to be used immediately, since she didn't have anywhere to store it.

It had one bullet. Best make it count.

The opportunity presented itself immediately, when she turned around to see a man with a black cloth tied around his upper arm — marked as one of Blackbeard's men — coming at her with a wide grin, sword raised. She let him get close up to her, almost within arm's reach, and fired right at his hand.

Unfortunately, it only grazed him, because flintlocks were about as accurate as a blind pigeon in a snowstorm.

_Her_ aim with an empty flintlock, however, was _much_ better, and she got him right between the eyes with the butt of the gun, dazing him and leaving him open to attack.

Emma moved without thinking — _only use this in self-defense_, she could hear her father saying — tossing one of the daggers from her left hand to her right and stabbing forward and up, aiming for the heart like she'd been taught to do.

It was a perfect blow, and the pirate went limp with a wet grunt, almost bringing her down with him as he fell.

She let out a surprised shout and stumbled, tripping awkwardly over the corpse and choking as she slipped on the blood and almost fell over. She put a foot on the man's chest and pulled the dagger out of him, blinking in shock at the hole it left behind.

…No one had told her how hard it was to get a knife out of someone's body. No one had told her how the eyes didn't always close when they died.

But she didn't get more than a second to stare in horror before a beast of a man with a hell of a beard materialized out of the smoke and the gray early-morning light, tapping his sword against his hand thoughtfully.

"Impressive," he said appreciatively, in an accent not far south of Jones's, "albeit with nary a _shred_ o' grace."

"Thanks?" she replied, and was surprised at how hoarse her voice was. She pretended that her eyes were stinging from the gunpowder smoke.

"Not much of a warrior, are ye, lass?" he asked, without any question, walking around her, eyes raking her up and down like he was inspecting a horse he was considering buying. "Never been in a real-life battle before, I'd wager."

"What makes you say that?" she countered, trying to sound more confident than she felt. A horrible pit had opened up in her gut; this clearly wasn't a grunt she was talking to. This man walked — and talked — like Jones did, implicit authority and casual threat.

"There's panic in your eyes," he replied, tilting her chin up with his sword. "You're trained, and well enough," he added, glancing to the body at their feet, "more'n a mite deadly with those dirks you stole. But for all your learnin' you still don't know how to kill a man."

"Well, I think I've figured it out," she whispered, and the man smiled like a shark.

"Startin' to, p'raps," he said. "What's your name, m'dear?"

"Anamaria," she answered slowly, borrowing one of her maid's identities. The thought of home and safety rose up in the back of her head, unbidden, at the name, but she swallowed the memory hard. Sentimentality wouldn't do her any good here.

"Anamaria," the man repeated, rolling word over on his tongue, walking closer up to her and examining her face from a few different angles. "And what do you do for a livin', Miss Anamaria, to have such trainin'?"

"I'm a thief," she said, and congratulated herself internally: a thief would have good reason to be on a pirate ship, good reason to be an expert with a dagger, and good reason to not be a killer. An airtight alias, provided he didn't expect her to steal anything.

"In _that_ dress?" he murmured, fingering the sleeve. Her stomach dropped further with the close proximity; there were braids all in his graying beard and he had scars on his face and silver teeth in his mouth and hard brown eyes and a high-quality vest over a black shirt, like he could've mentored Jones in how to dress for success. But, thankfully, with the fear came a fresh wave of anger, at herself and at the situation and at all the men around her (this one and Jones especially). She tilted her chin up and jerked away from his hand; he looked amused. "Hardly appropriate thievin' attire, that is."

"That depends on what you're trying to steal," she replied firmly, rallying herself and looking him straight in the eyes, daring him to make a move. What she'd do if he did, she had no idea, but she'd definitely do… something. Something brave and painful.

(Preferably for him.)

He grinned, showing more silver and gold, and took her by the arm in a vice grip, pulling her toward the ropes and gangplank, the ones that he and his crew had used to board the ship. Her throat went dry and she dug her heels in, but he pulled her harder than Jones had, less concerned with her comfort.

"I like the look o' you, Miss Anamaria," he said conspiratorially, and she couldn't shake the feeling that the man was mocking her, "and you should feel special: it's not many a woman Blackbeard respects."


	5. Chapter 5

Emma took a deep breath and once again tried to pull her arm away from the captain, with no more success than she'd had back on Jones's ship. She wondered if he'd noticed she was gone yet.

"I'm not going to run, you know," she said through gritted teeth, and he laughed.

"S'not runnin' I'd be worried about from you, my dear," he replied conspiratorially, glaring at one of his leering men. "In fact, my aim is to take _care_ of you — clearly, Cap'n Jones is… _slippin'_ in his treatment of the fairer sex, to leave you in such a state of undress."

She opened her mouth to protest that it was, in fact, her own decision to be dressed like this, because he _had_ offered her alternative clothing, but then closed it again because she currently had no desire to defend the man.

"You mean to tell me you keep women's clothes in your cabin?" she deadpanned, and continued before her survival instinct could catch up to her tongue. "Huh. Learn something new everyday."

He laughed, but so loud that it sounded fake.

"I believe in bein' prepared for every possibility, Miss Anamaria," he said. "I may be an old sea dog, but every now and again I'll still entertain a woman, and sometimes she may… be wantin' a new outfit a'fore she leaves."

She knew what he was _trying_ to imply, but there was something horribly ominous about the sentence anyway. "That's very… thoughtful of you," she replied hesitantly, stumbling as he ushered her to his cabin.

"Thank you," he said, with saccharine kindness. "You'll find several dresses of varyin' size in the wardrobe. I'd wager a few will fit you."

With that, he closed the door behind her, but at least he didn't lock it.

Part of her wanted to remain in the red dress, if only on stubborn principle, but it was starting to get cold and she was sick of feeling like a piece of meat around all these pirates, so she threw the doors of the wardrobe open and looked over the options.

Apparently, Blackbeard entertained far more women than he let on, or else he really _did_ just like to dress up sometimes (a mental image that she indulged in for a moment, letting it ease her fear a bit) — fully half the wardrobe was dresses or skirts, in an array of colors between black and red and black, and in a range of styles between revealing and _really_ revealing.

She rifled through the dresses, but none of them even kind of appealed to her and all of them exposed little less skin than her current outfit, so she inspected the rest of the clothing for anything that might fit.

Emma finally settled on the least-complicated skirt she could find, one of Blackbeard's shirts — or, at least, _some_ man's shirt, but it did seem too small for the captain — and a leather vest which would serve the dual purpose of covering her chest and working as rudimentary armor. As an afterthought, she tied a long, bright-red scarf around her waist; it added color and, more importantly, she could use it as rope in a pinch.

She looked like a little kid playing at pirate: all the pirate elements in her outfit but none of the pirate weapons in her hand. She wrinkled her nose and began searching through his room for a spare knife or gun or letter opener or anything, but he… didn't keep them in his room.

Except where else would he keep them _but_ in his room?

A creeping chill slithered up her spine.

.

Emma intended to make good and damn sure there weren't any weapons in the room before she stepped out of it; but in spite of the fact that Blackbeard's quarters were more homey than Jones's and he owned more trinkets and knick-knacks than Jones did, he had the exact same number of knives, guns, and anything she could use to defend herself.

Except maybe the scarf. It didn't really count as a 'hurt and/or kill this person attacking you' weapon, but scarves had a lot of potential uses, and it was (theoretically) possible that she could strangle someone with it.

She'd felt safer on Jones's ship, but maybe that had more to do with her emotions regarding the captain — after all, staying with him was courting death, and Blackbeard had gotten her away from him, _and_ if she played her cards right, she could probably convince him to ransom her off to her parents.

Jones would come after her again, but she'd be prepared this time, and so would the entire standing army.

(Two could play at this 'callous' game.)

But it kept tickling at the back of her mind — why wouldn't Blackbeard have spare weapons in his room? If he'd intended to take prisoners, he certainly wouldn't have intended to keep them in his room, and he hadn't planned to take her in and keep her there, either. Unless he'd seen her on the bow, and had… nefarious purposes.

But then why leave her alone?

It didn't add up.

Unfortunately, there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it from here. Finally accepting that she was, once again, unarmed in hostile territory, Emma took a deep breath and opened the door, walking out onto the deck of the _Queen Ann's Revenge_.

Blackbeard's ship was darker than Jones's, both literally and metaphorically, which did nothing to quell the hysterical child in the back of her head constantly whispering that she was on a ghost ship. It didn't help that clouds were starting to gather in the sky, threatening rain; the bitter wind that had been driving them forward was showing off its dark side.

They were still going north.

.

Emma had never been one for beating around the bush.

"So, what are you really after?" she asked, arms crossed, looking up at Blackbeard (albeit from a reasonable distance, and close enough to the edge of the ship that she could leap overboard if the need arose). He blinked.

"Quite a bit o' gumption you have, dear," he replied ambiguously, "to be so disrespectful."

"It's not disrespect," she countered, even though it kind of had been, "but I'm not stupid. You didn't pick me up by accident."

"What would make you say such a thing, lass?"

She was reminded, forcibly, of the confrontation she'd had with Jones all the way back at the ball; she had been a lot safer then, but no less reckless. She just… wasn't going to get anywhere unless she took charge of _something_, especially since they were still going north — even if Blackbeard _didn't_ have something up his sleeve with Regina, she needed to stay the hell away from her country regardless. Playing the ingenue or the spunky thief might have worked, but she didn't have time for any more games.

"Call it a hunch," she answered, trying to subtly take a deep breath to calm herself. "If you picked me up because you wanted me on your crew, why did you disarm me?"

"So you're thinkin' I've some… _ulterior motive_ for allowin' you aboard, is that it?" he said slowly, in that vaguely mocking tone he'd used before. "What motive might that be, I wonder?"

Shit.

"I don't know," she replied, a bit too quickly, and something flickered in his eyes — he'd caught the lie. "Maybe you want to ransom me off to… Jones," she suggested, without really thinking about it.

"And maybe you're graspin' at straws, Anamaria, my dear," he said warmly, and condescendingly. "You've had a long day, no doubt you're tired. Best you rest a spell before dinner. Storm's comin' on anyhow, wouldn't want a green lass like yourself to get caught in it."

The dismissal could not have been clearer, and she was in too precarious a position to push any further. At least until she had figured out something more of his motives, and if it was actually safe to tell him the truth about her parentage — on the one hand, maybe he would agree to sell her to her parents, but on the other hand, maybe he would sell her to Regina.

And this far north…

She glanced to the south, but the encroaching weather obscured anything more than a dozen or so feet away.

.

She turned the coin over and over in her hand numbly; it was large, silver, and foreign — specifically, it was ten markka.

Markka.

Only one country used that coin.

Emma had gone searching in Blackbeard's cabin again after her 'confrontation' with him, looking for anything odd this time, rather than weapons, anything that might prove at least _one_ of her suspicions right. She had found it, in a bag of coins he'd hidden under a loose floorboard.

She had _almost_ just put the bag back because — well, _obviously_, the man was a pirate, so _obviously_, he would have money and, _obviously_, he would want to keep his own stash hidden from his crewmen, especially if it was money they didn't know about. But she'd looked inside anyway, and…

At least, she thought distantly, he'd been paid well.

She looked up when the door opened, letting in a howl of wind that she only blinked at, and Blackbeard walked in.

"My apologies, Anamaria," he said jovially, "but I'm afraid — "

"You know what I don't get?" she cut in, ignoring the fact that she had just _interrupted Edward Teach_, the vicious anger rising up through the numb fear shutting her rationality down hard. "Why you kept up the act after I was already on-board. What did you have to gain by doing that?"

"Excuse me?" he replied, voice low and cold and dangerous. She tilted her chin up, meeting his eyes, and threw the coin to him. He looked at it, raising an eyebrow. "So you dug through me quarters," he said through clenched teeth, "but you're still makin' no sense, lass. Captain keepin' a bit of shine to himself's hardly a thing for _you_ to get worked up over."

"Please don't insult me, Captain," she said, matching his cold tone.

His eyes narrowed, and for a long moment they just stared at each other, until she started to wonder if maybe she'd been horribly wrong, but then he relaxed, shrugging, and took a seat. "Fair enough," he sighed finally, "I suppose I can grant you that dignity, _milady_."

She wasn't even sure _why_ it made her so mad — this was a good thing! This could be her ticket home! But the fact that… she just…

Emma felt like a goddamn piece of eight, with all these people fighting over who got to kill her first. And maybe Blackbeard had scared her, and maybe she hadn't really trusted him, and maybe she'd known he was mocking her from the start, but at least he had _tried_ to convince her that he wanted her on his crew because she had some measure of _skill_. At least she had, however briefly, been _worth_ something for reasons other than her blood.

It was like she wasn't even human to all these pirates.

She took a deep breath. "Can you grant me the dignity of negotiation?" she asked quietly, forcing her voice to remain even. He raised an eyebrow but gave her a tiny nod. "Regina has already paid you to kidnap me from Jones, or at least paid you part of what you're promised. However much she's giving you, my parents can match it, or even give you more. And they _will_, they'll do whatever it takes to get me back. Hand me over to _them_, and I'll see to it that you get paid — and _better_ than Regina is paying you — and you go free. No prison, nothing confiscated, you get off scot-free. Just take me _home_."

He laughed.

_Laughed_.

The bastard.

"Not a bad deal you're proposin' there, missy," he replied, crossing his arms and leaning further back in his chair. "But you're neglectin' a few details."

"Such as?"

"For one," he started, ticking it off on his finger, "your parents. Now, I'm not sayin' they won't pay me like you say, 'better than Regina,' but I _am_ sayin' they'll not let me keep said gold."

"Yes, they will!" she countered loudly, anger threatening to burst out of her control. "My parents are honest people — "

"That they are," he interrupted, voice even louder. "And I don't trust honest people."

"What?" she snapped incredulously, and he heaved a sigh, like explaining this to her was _such_ a burden. Her hackles rose further.

"Dishonest men, you can us trust to be… untrustworthy," he explained, "but an honest man? You can never know when he'll suddenly decide that betrayin' you is the right thing to do. Man like me trusts an honest man like your da, he's takin' a _mighty_ risk. I can just _see_ him decidin' to blow me right outta the water moment you're back safe in his arms."

She tried to refute him, but came up short. The truth was, she wasn't entirely sure Blackbeard was wrong. She knew her parents to be honorable and good, but she also knew her parents wouldn't be very forgiving toward her kidnappers.

Maybe they wouldn't kill him, but there was _no_ way they wouldn't imprison him.

"I won't let him," she replied weakly, but he was already moving on.

"Furthermore, _if_ I hand you back over to your _honest_ pappy, once he's locked me up or killed me outright, ol' Cap'n Jones will be swoopin' right back in to take you right back to Regina like he promised her, which just negates the whole point of my takin' you in the first place."

"You mean you — " she started, but cut herself off before she said anything stupid. Of _course_ he had cut a deal with Regina to get revenge on Jones, keep him from getting whatever Regina had agreed to give him.

It was, she had to admit, a great set-up from the queen's point of view: whatever she had promised Jones was something valuable and presumably powerful, and by enlisting him to do the dirty work of getting Emma away from her parents and enlisting Blackbeard to take her off Jones's hands, she would be able to still get her revenge on Snow, renege on her side of the deal with Jones, and set Jones up to hang for kidnapping Emma in the first place. Both she and Blackbeard would make out like bandits on the deal, while Emma and Jones would pay the price.

Also, it meant that she _definitely_ couldn't convince Blackbeard to give her to her parents… but maybe she _could_ use the information to convince Jones to double-cross Regina himself.

Presuming Jones caught up with them and re-took her.

"Right," she muttered darkly, crossing her arms and deciding to drop the subject; it wouldn't be getting her anywhere. "So how much longer till we reach land?"

"Two days, give or take, dependin' on the weather," he replied, getting back up and stretching with a grunt as he walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a thick, oiled-leather raincoat.

"And will Regina meet us at port?" she whispered, praying internally that the answer was no.

"Can't rightly say," he answered, shrugging on his coat and making for the door. "We've made excellent time, so I'd guess not, but… well, Regina's a bit like me, isn't she?" he said cheerfully, opening the door and letting in another gust of wind, this time with mist involved — the clouds were about to burst. "The only thing you can expect her to be is unpredictable."

"That's not true," Emma replied, but either he didn't hear her or he didn't care.

"Now, seein' as how you've got me all figured out," he went on, "I see no reason 't'all to play extra-friendly." For a moment, she was confused, but then he walked out and shut the door behind him, and locked it this time.

Her hands clenched into fists.

She was so damn _sick_ of being locked in people's rooms like a child in time-out.


	6. Chapter 6

The fighting was even louder than the thunder; of course, Jones _would_ attack during the storm, use the chaos to his advantage. It was smart. It was risky. It was suitably dramatic.

But somehow, the reality of it couldn't penetrate her skin. Emma felt detached from the whole thing, the anger hovering so close to the surface that it had desensitized her, blurred her vision and clouded up her mind.

It wouldn't stop with Jones. Blackbeard would just pick up and follow them again and attack them again or ambush them on the way to Regina's castle, and around and around she'd be passed, from one of them to the other and back, until one of them got the _package_ to Regina first.

Her fingers twisted convulsively in the skirt, and her eyes fell on the lantern.

.

Emma had, at least, had the presence of mind to pick the lock first and wait until she was sure Jones's men were all or at least mostly aboard the ship before throwing the nearly-full kerosene lantern right into Blackbeard's fancy wardrobe. She stayed behind for a long moment to make sure it caught — maybe the storm would keep it from disabling or blowing up the ship, but it would _definitely_ make Blackbeard (and Jones, at that) think twice about locking her up like an animal again — and to commit the sight to memory.

She slipped out the door, taking care to close it firmly behind her so the fire would do as much damage as possible before it hit the rain, and almost ran straight into a two-man skirmish. Without bothering to think about it, still running on the brutally-calm, numb rage, she untied the scarf and threw it around the neck of Blackbeard's crewman, pulling him backwards, startling him, and giving Jones's man the opportunity to go in for the kill.

"Well, ain't this a boon," Jones's man said cheerfully, holding out a hand to her. "Quick'n easy as you like. Cap'll be pleased."

"Will he," she replied coldly, looting the body and coming back with a decently-sized dagger. The man's expression faded into reservation; clearly, her deadly mood was showing. "And just where _is_ Jones, I wonder?"

"Not sure," the pirate answered, indicating to the storm and the fighting — she could barely see four feet in front of her. "Wherever Blackbeard is, I'd wager." He hesitated, watching her warily as she tapped the knife against her palm, and suddenly twitched, sniffing. "D'you smell that?" he asked, in growing horror.

Emma smiled.

"You might want to get the captain's attention," she said softly, watching with relish as the man paled. "You have what you came for. It's time to retreat."

The look on his face almost made everything worth it. "Might be a bit difficult," he said, in a slightly higher-pitched voice, "what with the noise."

She stepped closer, glaring straight into his eyes. "Then shout _really loud_," she hissed, and left him behind, skidding across the deck toward the ropes or the gangplank, to _get off this ship_ before the fire spread too far, and potentially got to the powder kegs.

It was even worse than the last time she'd been in the middle of a pirate raid (was that really only yesterday?) — storms at sea were _vicious_ things, attacking with water from every direction and rocking the ship to the point that even the most hardened fighters were tripping and sliding halfway across the deck. It was the only fight she'd been in or heard of where _splinters_ had become a serious issue.

She maybe hadn't thought this all the way through.

She definitely didn't give a damn.

Because of the chaos, the short run to the edge of the ship was more of a gauntlet; three steps removed from the captain's quarters, she slipped and crashed into a heavy-set pirate who could have, frankly, been anyone from anywhere.

Emma had transcended such mundane things as "alliances" and "avoiding friendly fire" and lashed out at the man with her dagger, aiming for the gut. She missed, although it was less from skill than it was him slipping on deck as well and crashing down on his back, legs kicking out and knocking her down with him.

"Oi!" he bellowed indignantly, struggling to get up and failing several times; she would be amused except she wasn't doing any better. "What the _bloody hell_ d'you think you're playin' at?"

Oh. One of Jones's.

"Sorry," she replied insincerely, scrabbling to get to her feet and finally succeeding, albeit with help from the back of the nearest pirate's shirt.

In retrospect, that _probably_ wasn't one of her best ideas: this one let out a yell and arched backward, whirling around to attack her sword-first, but she didn't let go of his shirt and stumbled around with him in a horribly awkward dance. She caught a glimpse of Heavy gaping at her and finally rising to his feet, coming in for the assist.

She didn't bother to wait around and see what happened to him.

There was enough rigging from where she'd landed that she could more or less ferry herself to the edge of the ship, assuming she could cling to the thick, tough, waterlogged rope with her feet trying to take her in every direction while somehow _not_ making herself a massive target.

The odds weren't great, but what the hell.

She gripped the rope in one hand and held her dagger in the other, and ignored the massive rope burn in her left palm as she slid more than walked to the guardrail, not far from one of the ropes Jones's crew had used to board. Just as she was throwing one leg over the railing and reaching for the rope, one of Blackbeard's men spotted her and shouted, motioning to her as he ran forward.

He'd caught his captain's attention.

Blackbeard's face contorted in a way that suggested he was shouting a string of expletives and made it about two steps in her direction before all activity on the ship rippled to a terrified halt.

And with that, Emma discovered how to end a fight between two bitterly-hostile pirate ships in the space of a moment: set something on fire.

The scene was actually quite pretty: smoke had begun billowing out from under the quarterdeck into the stormy night, winds picking up and fanning the flames as rain sizzled on them in a futile attempt to put them out, an entire ship blanketed with two crews' worth of men frozen, all under a flickering chiaroscuro of white lightning and red fire. She couldn't help but cackle.

It seemed like fully half of Blackbeard's crew was suddenly willing to be captured by Jones's, while the other half scrambled to put out the fire with some of the water flooding the deck; Jones's crew was moving almost as one to the edge of the ship, joining her in the rush to the _Jolly Roger_ (where, she noted, the first man she'd run into had already long-since gone). For a moment, Emma paused at the edge of the _Roger_ and looked back, and finally caught sight of Jones, gaping, furious and incredulous and maybe a little horrified.

She grinned.

.

In general, Emma preferred to be practical rather than dramatic — she favored simple strikes with knives or swords over showy twirling and dancing footwork, simple dresses and hairstyles over elaborate outfits and anything involving feathers, and a blunt threat or accusation over a conversation full of veiled comments — but sometimes, drama was not only necessary, but _satisfying as all hell_.

She was sitting in the chair, in the exact same way Jones had been when she'd woken up here (because it was the little things), waiting. Her vicious rage had simmered down into something a lot colder, and, coupled with her complete and utter inability to care about anything whatsoever at the moment, quite a bit more dangerous.

He'd managed to do a pretty thorough clean-up of his room in the day she'd been absent: if she hadn't known that it had been a disaster zone twenty-four hours before, she would've thought nothing was wrong. It was impressive, and maybe a bit odd.

Jones had been chasing Blackbeard down to recapture his bounty, in a storm, on a ship full of men who probably had no desire whatsoever to face the _Revenge_ again, and he had… cleaned his room?

When did he sleep?

_Did_ he sleep? _Ever?_

She got her answer (probably) when he stormed into the room and slammed the door behind him, glaring — judging from the state of his clothes and hair and the color of his face, he had not, in fact, slept in at least thirty-six hours.

"What the _bloody hell_ did you think you were doing?" he snapped, visibly shaking with anger. Emma raised an eyebrow.

"Getting off the _Revenge_," she replied blandly, shrugging. "Really, I was doing you a favor."

"A _favor?_" he cried. "You could've gotten us all _killed!_ If that fire had reached the powder kegs, _both_ of our ships would've been destroyed!"

"I would be sorry except I really don't care," she said coldly, clearly surprising him. "Oh, come on," she sneered, with an acidic smile. "It's not like I'm getting out of this alive, am I? If I'm gonna die, well, why don't I make it on my terms?"

"And take _two entire ships_ full of sailors with you?"

"If you're gonna go, go all out," she replied, shrugging again. "Besides, I can swim. Maybe I couldn't make it all the way to shore, but hey, my chances were better than nothing, so what have I got to lose?"

This seemed to catch him off-guard: he blinked several times in rapid succession, reaching out as though to strangle her in frustration, and finally closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and clenching his jaw, apparently praying for patience and receiving no reply.

"Then why come back at all?" he asked slowly, in a (relatively) calm voice. "Your chances of surviving were better if you tried to swim to shore than if you came back here, and yet here you are."

She grinned like a shark. "Because you and me, we're gonna make a deal."

"Are we?" he said flatly, still seething.

"_Oh_ yeah," she answered, crossing her arms. "I have a few things you might want, some information, a few skills, the kind of power you can't _scare_ people into appreciating. I can help you."

"If I do what?" he asked, eyebrow raised and (at least openly, she hoped) disinterested. "Take you back to your parents?"

"Well, _obviously_," she replied, rolling her eyes. "Trust me, I'm worth more to you alive than in Regina's hands."

"In what way?" he asked softly, like a silk-wrapped knife. "What is this _information,_ this _power_ you claim you have?"

She had thought about this at length, and what she'd come up with was, admittedly, a little pathetic, but Emma knew her own limits and she knew when to defer to higher powers than herself. "I know where the Dark One is, for example," she said like it was a secret — which, she sometimes forgot, it _was,_ as only the royal family and those closest to them knew. She had struck gold: he tilted his head, perking up like a cat. "I hear he and Regina aren't great friends, I'd be willing to bet he'd play along."

"Oh, I doubt that very much," Jones murmured, but now he was watching her with open interest, all of the anger melting away. "The Dark One hasn't been seen in decades," he went on, running a hand over his lips in contemplation. "You know where he's been hiding?"

"I know where he's been hiding," she said darkly, with a smirk. She was beginning to get an idea, just what it was that he was after: she had gotten it _backward,_ he wouldn't use the Dark One against Regina because he was using _Regina_ against the _Dark One._ But Regina wouldn't give him the location, probably hadn't even let on that she knew.

"Where?"

"Have we got a deal?"

He paused, staring at her for a long moment like he was trying to read her mind. "If I return you to your parents, what happens to me?" he asked coolly. She shrugged.

"Whatever you like. I'll keep them off your back, tell them that, oh, it was Blackbeard who kidnapped me and you just _happened_ to be passing by your old rival and decided to _gallantly_ — " she rolled her eyes; he quirked an eyebrow " — rescue me and bring me home safe. I can probably get them to make you a hero and _everything."_

"A hero?" he snorted derisively, but remained deep in thought, idly running his fingers over his lips. "I return you to your parents, safe and sound, and in exchange I have immunity and access to the Dark One, yes?" She nodded. "A good enough deal, but Regina's is still better. She has something I'm _far _more interested in than information."

Emma smiled sweetly. "Do you really think it's a coincidence that Blackbeard took me off your ship?" she asked softly, and with as much sugary condescension as she could possibly inject into one sentence. Annoyance passed over his face. "Oh, yeah," she said. "She's not gonna give you a _damn_ thing, she's got him all set up to get you out of the way."

"I had wondered," he muttered, voice and face sour. "I still require certain… artifacts that Regina has," he explained, crossing his arms. "Without which finding the Dark One is rather moot."

"Fine, we steal them from her," she suggested with a shrug that hopefully belied how much she _did not want_ to go near Regina's castle.

"A dangerous game to play, with your pretty face. Going into the home of the witch who wants you dead, risk your life and the future of your country, all to help a pirate steal a dagger?"

"Do you want my help or not?" she snapped. What the hell did he want with one of Regina's daggers?

"I'm beginning to believe that making a deal with a firecracker such as yourself is a bit… _dangerous,"_ he said slowly, ignoring her question. "D'you have any _idea_ just how many laws of man and rules of the pirate's code you've broken in the last two hours?"

"No," she replied bluntly. "I guess it's a good thing I'm not a pirate."

"Indeed," he smirked, briefly looking like the man she'd met at the party again; it was unexpected, and a little disconcerting. "For all of us involved. I would hate to have to answer to the Pirate Queen Emma."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she said coolly, holding out her hand. "Do we have a deal?"

"What will you do, I wonder, if I _refuse?"_ he asked in a silky, vaguely amused tone. "What if I lock you back up and take you to Regina just as planned? I assure you, I can overpower her if necessary, she'll not keep me from what I want."

"You lock me up _one more time_," she started slowly, dangerously, standing and getting right up to him, too angry to be afraid, "and you'll find out like Blackbeard did just how much of a _firecracker_ I can _really_ be."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke and he simply watched her, calculating, neither angry at her threat nor afraid of it.

In fact, if anything, he seemed a little _impressed._

"My offer is the best thing you'll get," she hissed. "I'll help you get your dagger, I'll take you to the Dark One, I'll get you immunity, all you have to do is _take me home_. Where is your compromise? What part of that _isn't_ good for you?"

He ruminated on it for another long moment, still looking at her like she was a puzzle he'd just realized was missing half the pieces, and she couldn't figure out why. Her offer was good, and they both knew she was a safer ally than Regina — and, at this precise moment in time, a more dangerous enemy — especially because he was her only way home, unless she could waste enough time for her parents to arrive after her. But even then, it was safest for her, her family, and her country that she handle this personally, without causing a war with the Evil Queen. He would win from _every_ angle with this deal, get _everything_ he wanted just so long as he put her back where she started.

So why was he hesitating? What was there to wonder about?

(_Maybe_, she thought traitorously, _he's concerned about putting you in that much danger_.)

"It _is_ a compelling offer," he answered finally. "If you truly think we can retrieve that dagger."

"She'll kill you before she'll give it to you," Emma replied, banking on what she knew about Regina and what she guessed about this weapon, and held out her hand to shake again. "Neither of us have anything to lose."

"No," he murmured, looking from her face to her hand in something related to caution, "I don't suppose we do."

The way he took her hand cemented it as _reluctance_ rather than carefulness, and he held it a bit longer than was really necessary, his thumb running over the back of her palm in a way that made her heart beat faster.

"Good," she said brightly, refusing to show how much his shifting demeanor had thrown her off. _"Finally,_ we're on the same page."


	7. Chapter 7

It was like a switch had been flipped; all of a sudden, the cold and callous pirate captain had been replaced by the dashing stranger she'd met at her birthday party — because, she tried not to think, she wasn't going to die anymore and so it was safe to care.

She'd tried to come up with another plausible reason, but come up short every time.

After all, he _had_ said he liked her.

It made her vaguely uncomfortable to think about, even though she wasn't some teenager with low self-esteem who couldn't imagine someone possibly being interested in her — and, frankly, she would have had to be blind and deaf to believe that he wasn't interested in at least getting her into his bed — and she wasn't so pure and noble like her mother to be horrified at the thought of catching a pirate's eye.

It was just… it wasn't _safe._

He was perceptive, clever, sharp as a needle and just as good at getting under her skin. Attractive like a whirlpool, inexorable and inescapable, but she was trapped in this game with him and there was no shore to swim to; it left her nowhere to go but down. She was usually good at keeping men at a safe distance, ever since — ever since she'd grown up some and gotten involved with them outside of her parents' protective arms, but Killian…

Emma almost wished he'd go cold on her again, shut her out, because she found herself unable to do it to him.

She'd gone down this path before, and she knew it was a dead end, always a dead end with her, one way or another. Usually, it was straightforward: they wanted to use her power, they wanted to make her theirs, they wanted her body, they wanted her heart, men were always wanting things from her they couldn't have. It was never the other way around, except the one time it was.

It didn't feel so good on the other side, being not good enough to earn someone else's love, or even their time.

It didn't feel so good, being the one getting left behind.

And Killian was bound to leave her behind sooner or later; it was inevitable, he would go back to the sea and she would go back to the throne and there was no happy ending, there was no getting what she wanted. It wasn't worth it, he wasn't worth it.

No one was worth it.

She told herself that she preferred Captain Jones over Killian, but the lie was pathetic, even to herself.

.

"We'll be landing before long," he said lightly. "A few hours at most."

Emma made a face, looking around the ship; everywhere, the sailors were preparing to disembark, doing things she took on faith were necessary or at least preferable, while she stood up on the quarterdeck with the captain, feeling far more awkward than she would ever admit.

Killian — Jones — _Killian_ (she sighed) was busy giving orders, although mostly it seemed like everyone already knew the drill and he was just talking to keep himself occupied, that same odd, effusive energy he'd shown a few times before.

"I'll start praying to all the gods I've heard of that Regina isn't there," she drawled, half joking and half considering it. He glanced back at her, eyebrow raised.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, my dear, but you don't particularly strike me as the pious sort."

"I'm not," she replied, "but it can't hurt, and, hey, what else can I do?"

For a moment, it looked like he was going to contradict her or maybe give her a job to do so she'd feel less useless, but all he did was shrug. "Fair enough," he said a bit lamely, looking away before sharply turning back at her with a smirk. "If you're longing for something to _do,_ love, I'm certain we can come up with an… _enjoyable_ activity. Or several."

She was not going to find anything about any part of that attractive or enticing in any way. At all.

(_A few hours is more than enough time_, she thought, entirely against her will.)

"How many lines did you reject before that one came to you?" she asked in a careful deadpan, drawing a laugh from him.

"Quite a number," he admitted, without a hint of shame. "Most were too crass for even _your_ not-so-delicate sensibilities."

"I don't know whether to take that as a compliment or an insult."

"What, that I don't consider your sensibilities to be delicate, or that I believe you've a limit?"

She paused, thinking about that. "The second one," she replied finally, and he snickered. "I like to think I can hold my own with pirates, thank you very much."

"Of _that,_ darling, I've no doubt."

They fell into a short, companionable (if vaguely embarrassed, on Emma's part) silence; she could now see the darker line of the horizon, where land met the sea, and a rush of maybe-irrational fear hit her.

What if Regina _was_ at the dock? What if _Blackbeard,_ by some miracle or pirate magic, was at the dock?

The actions that had seemed so clear and righteous in her livid haze yesterday now seemed like a _really _great way to get eviscerated by a pissed-off pirate captain with a burnt-out ship. It was slowly dawning on her that — in spite of the fact that she'd successfully escaped and crippled _Edward goddamn Teach's_ ship — even a dyed-in-the-wool pirate like Captain Jones thought she'd gone too far.

She wasn't sure if she should be proud or ashamed.

Mostly, the crew as a whole had decided not to really think about it, although she had caught one or two of them making a hand motion at her direction that looked suspiciously like one of those gods-protect-me-from-this-demon signs and, again, wasn't sure if that was good or awful for her immediate future.

But Killian would _have_ to have thought about it.

The question came out of her mouth without really stopping at her brain: "What about Blackbeard?"

"He'll've put into port for repairs," he replied neutrally. "It's difficult to say how extensive, it depends on how much of the fire reached the hull, if any. He's a meticulous bastard," he added with a wry and completely insincere grin, "and is proud of his ship's beauty, but he'll sail with a burnt-out husk as long as she can float."

The rest of that sentence was left to dangle in the air: _he'll_ limp_ his ship to port to hunt you down_.

"Don't worry yourself over it, love," Killian said, looking at the horizon instead of her. "I'll not leave you alone to face his wrath. He may not even catch up to us."

"Thanks," she winced, shivering in a way that might have been fear or something sweeter, but which she told herself was definitely from the cold; it had been cooling down since they'd started going north, but it seemed that the storm had brought a cold snap with it. "I guess we start hoping we got lucky and drops dead halfway to Bergen?"

The grin he shot her this time was both wicked and honest. "Those who rely on luck end up in Davy Jones's locker, darling. The key to survival on the seas," he said softly, leaning in entirely too close to her ear, "is to make your own luck." He straightened up, turning back to the sea, the horizon continuing to darken like something magical materializing out of mist. "And, to be perfectly honest, I'd be terribly disappointed if the man came so far and accomplished so much, only to end up dying in such a mundane way."

"You want to be the one to kill him?" she inferred, but he just shrugged.

"That would be nice," he admitted without shame, and it slightly worried her that his casual statement of hoping to murder someone _didn't_ worry her at all. "But I _do_ respect him; he's an accomplished captain with a horde of gold so deep he could _swim_ in it. He should have some dramatic exit, don't you think?"

"I guess," she mused, but the more she thought about it, the more appealing it seemed. Emma had never contemplated how she planned to die, because she was perfectly happy contemplating how she would avoid that particular pitfall for, potentially, ever, but she'd vaguely hoped for something painless, at least.

It must have been the pirates and their wanton approach to raids and swashbuckling fashion. They'd do anything to be remembered, and that sort of mindset was infectious.

"What kind of exit would you want?" she asked flippantly, expecting some sort of over-the-top response, but the look he gave her was uncomfortably sober and dispassionate, and he held eye contact for about a beat longer than he should have, gave her a little too long to decipher his expression.

For some reason, the words _he never got anything he wanted_ rose back up in her mind, and she guessed at the answer he wouldn't give her: some form of suicide. Probably the kind that was more reckless than deliberate, the kind that ran into battle without armor or challenged the god of war to a duel.

The kind that hunted down an immortal, all-powerful sorcerer armed with nothing but a dagger.

He was, she noticed, massaging his left hand again.

.

The port city of Bergen was beautiful when it rose up to meet them, all sparkling blue seas and tall white spires, but then decidedly not beautiful at all when they actually met it, with a crowded wharf that smelled so strongly of fish that even _Killian_ winced and a myriad of people who had nothing in common except that she was absolutely certain that every single one of them would kill her and loot her corpse at the first opportunity.

(She might have been overreacting out of anxiety.)

"Seems your prayers had some effect after all," Killian said lightly, suddenly reminding her that she was supposed to have been praying at some point; the amused glance he gave her said he knew she'd forgotten. "No sign of the queen."

"She could be in hiding," Emma replied nervously, fingers twisting in her sleeves as she scanned the crowd, like Regina would just spontaneously appear in front of her… which was, if her mother's stories were any indication, entirely possible.

"Regina?" he sneered, derisive and careless, but they were getting close enough to shore that he couldn't just stand around and chat anymore. "No, she'd come with an entourage and a ridiculous dress. She's well past the point of subtlety now… well, _farther_ past it at any rate."

With that, he left her and began barking orders to the crew, less about how to dock and more about shore leave and not attempting to smuggle any prostitutes onboard and if you return with a horrible disease you'll be exiled to the deepest recesses of the cargo hold and looted according to rank, although the snickers among the crew suggested that he was joking about that one. It was oddly… specific, though, and made her a bit uncomfortable.

She was the last one off the ship, except for Killian himself, a habit she'd heard of before — the captain was _always_ the last person to leave the ship, even (especially) if it meant going down with it.

"Where are we going?" she asked, clinging to his shirtsleeve to avoid being separated by the crowds. He glanced at her, and then at her hand, and shook it off but immediately slipped his arm through hers instead. On the one hand, it was better than clutching his sleeve like a child, but on the other, it was a very… intimate gesture. She avoided looking at their arms.

"You may believe you're hiding it well, my dear," he started, "but it's high noon and already _frigid_ and you're ill-equipped for this weather."

"You're buying me clothes?" she deadpanned, genuinely thrown off and slightly suspicious. He raised an eyebrow.

"The alternative is giving you my coat," he replied easily, "which, while the chivalrous thing to do, would leave me to freeze to death. And, my _deepest_ apologies," he went on with sugary and vaguely mocking kindness, "but I'll not endure frostbite to maintain your oh-so-dignified insistence that you refuse everything I offer you."

She stared determinedly ahead, biting her tongue. Damn him.

"Okay, _fine,"_ she grumbled, "but you're not choosing anything."

"I _am_ the one with the gold, darling," he said deviously, pulling her a little closer to him, where it was warmer from his body heat and definitely not from her now-standard reaction to his close proximity. She glared at him, unamused, and he smirked.

He was in a hell of a good mood, at least. Maybe it was because Regina hadn't come to meet them.

Killian led her through the red-light district, which was both thankfully and disappointingly sleepy. She'd heard that the streets of Bergen were livid and forgetful, where a person could find anything they were looking for — no matter how mundane or diabolic, sweet or sadistic — for the right price, and forgotten or deliberately ignored the moment they were gone. It _would_ be her luck that she'd finally get to see them, but at high noon, when everyone was still sleeping the previous night off.

But they didn't linger there; mostly, it seemed, he'd gone through the district as a shortcut or to avoid anyplace that might involve too many guards. Again, she was glad — because any clothing bought in a shop next door to a brothel couldn't _possibly_ help her with the cold — and disappointed — because any clothing bought in a shop next door to a brothel couldn't possibly be anything _but_ hopelessly sexy.

Before she knew it, they were in one of the more upscale markets, much more crowded with people, the sort she would have expected to look at them with disdain, but the confident way that Killian walked among them made it seem like they belonged and, in fact, this crowd was utterly plebeian.

It was ironic, that the pirate looked more at home among the businessmen and low aristocrats than the princess did.

She just _hated_ these kinds of people.

The tailor at the store he led her to was a mild-faced older man who gave Killian such a knowing look that it was impossible to believe they were seeing each other for the first time. "You know him?" she asked quietly, and he raised an eyebrow.

"In my line of work, it pays to have friends in every port. Or at least a cache of people in your debt."

She blinked. "So you're not paying for this," she said flatly, and a little disgruntled.

"Not full price, at any rate," he replied with a shrug.

The outfit she ended up with was a fair compromise to the two facades she was already wearing — the riding pants, boots, and vest of a royal on a hunt and the shirt, coat, and swordbelt of a pirate. Killian deliberately shut her out of the payment process, although that could easily have been because he didn't want her to know how much he had spent on her or because he was threatening and/or calling in some nefarious old favor to get the tailor to haggle with him.

The friendly smile he gave her as they left seemed to suggest the former, so that was something.

"Now, then," Killian said, glancing around the square, "the topic of weapons. You're a good hand with a dirk, we've _all_ noticed, but how are you with a sword?"

"Embarrassingly bad," she answered, although that was a bit of a exaggeration.

"Bow and arrow?"

"Better, but I'd rather throw a knife than shoot a bow."

At this, he gave her a strange glance. "Most would consider the bow a _far_ simpler weapon to control than a throwing knife," he said slowly.

"I'm not most people," she replied sweetly. He raised an eyebrow.

"Only a fool would believe otherwise," he muttered, looking around the square again. "You've still got the dagger you stole off Blackbeard's man?"

"Not on me, but yes," she answered, and he nodded slowly.

"We'll get you a set of throwing knives, then," he said, making for a smithy, and she couldn't stand it anymore.

"Why are you doing all of this?" she hissed, slightly defensive and deeply wary. "You're spending a _lot_ of money on me for a week's mission."

He didn't bat an eye. "A _dangerous_ week, and one which will require a great degree of stealth and likely fighting," he replied, like it was obvious. "Keeping you alive and well-armed is in _both_ of our best interests, if you're to keep your side of our deal."

It was all very logical, but it sounded like a lie. Or maybe she just wanted to believe it was.


End file.
